Scrabble
by Milk and Glass
Summary: An Izzie/Denny one-shot fic, written for the winner of the Support Stacie Auction. Izzie reflects on how something so simple can bring back memories of the one she loves.


It used to be that Scrabble was a game that Izzie hated. That's what it used to be. She was never really good at spelling and it took her a long time to learn to read. She'd sit in the trailer with her grandmother and play Scrabble, and end up in tears because it was just too hard to figure out what the letters in front of her spelled. It was one way of tutoring for a six-year-old who wasn't sure of anything in her life, and considered reading one of life's biggest enigmas.

But over the years, when reading stopped being a chore and started being an escape from the life she lived at the side of the highway; when Scrabble was a cozy way to spend a winter's evening when the rain wouldn't stop pelting against the metal roof of the trailer and the interior smelled like chocolate-cinnamon cookies and dark Darjeeling tea; that was when she started to love the game. It reminded her of her grandmother. And it reminded her that there were good times in life that, like a flash of light in a dirty stream, outshone the alcoholic rages that her mother was famous for, or the shaking nights under her bed when her mother threw bottles against the wall and chain-smoked enough to burn the tiny trailer down.

It was peaceful, and when she met Denny, the first thing she did was bring in a Scrabble board.

His eyes crinkled up at the corners. "Scrabble?"

"Why not? It's a great game to pass the time," she replied, cheerful as ever. The fact was, she knew this was a game that she could win – and that alone was why she'd brought it in. Denny was gentle, and teasing, but she wanted to appear more than just a pretty girl before him. She wanted to beat him at something, as weird as that might have seemed, for someone who was just supposed to be her patient.

However, he'd fast proven that despite the fact that he liked to play football and ride horses; that he was a Memphis cowboy and an utter gentleman, that he was also well-read. He beat her soundly for her pains the first time, and she had been left staring down at the score while he smiled gently from the bed.

"Scrabble's my favourite game," he said.

She fell more in love with him then.

As he got sicker, and as life started to squeeze its way through his fast-pumping heart, enlarged and dying, he'd request to play Scrabble to take his mind off the pain, and off the fact that without a heart transplant, he had no chance. The words became more complicated; he stopped smiling, and when he lost to Izzie, he would turn to the side, his back to her, ignoring her for the time being.

She never knew how to react to that. She'd place the board aside and leave, most of the time. But one dark evening, when he refused to let her turn on the overhead light and they played by the cold light of the neon bed-top lamp, he lost to her again. And he'd screwed his fists into his eyes and brought one of them down on the board, making pieces scatter everywhere.

Izzie had been shocked. "Denny!" It was more annoying, knowing that she'd have to be the one to pick them all up while he watched her ass bobbing in the air that pissed her off more. But there was something wrong here, something far beyond a joke.

"Just go."

"Denny, come on." Izzie sat beside him on the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. And he'd shrugged it off, his face set in a trembling pout, his eyes tearful. She'd never seen him like this.

"It's never going to come, is it? I can't keep going on like this. I lie in bed and the happiest part of my day is when we play this stupid game. Then you win, and I realize that I don't have many more days to win myself. I'm going to die soon. And I'm a guy who never thought about that."

He wipes his nose with his fist, sniffling. Izzie puts her hands on his shoulders, feeling the powerful muscles beneath his nightgown, and knew that it wasn't fair, that such a horse of a man had to die because his turn was too low on the transplant list.

She nuzzled her nose into his neck, kissing him and rubbing her cheek against his rough hair, that still, almost impossibly despite the sterile hospital smell, held the scent of man and cigars and leather. He sighed and pulled her around to him. She perched on the edge of the bed, looking into his eyes.

"You might be dying, but you're not giving up, are you?" Her voice was quiet.

"I signed the DNR papers."

"I know. I thought it was stupid. Your life isn't over yet, Denny. Stop acting like a dead man and stop acting like a spoilt brat."

He'd shaken his head. "I can't expect you to understand."

"No, you can't. But you can enjoy the time you have. And keep hope that your turn will come. Give up and there's no point in trying to keep you healthy enough for the transplant."

He'd turned over. "Just go, please."

And she'd gone, not knowing what else to say – but she left the Scrabble board with him.

//~//

The sun was rising when Izzie snuck into Denny's room to check his vitals. He was normally asleep at this hour, but when she rounded the corner of the CICU, she found him lying in bed, his face thoughtful, turned to the pink sky making itself known outside the window.

"You were right, I guess," he greeted her, and she smiled a little.

"Haven't you realized that I'm always right?"

"Apparently," he'd grinned back, and the paleness of his face coloured a little with the smile that she loved so much.

She came over and held him tightly against her, feeling his strong arms around her. "I just want you to care about living."

"I used to."

"You have to keep caring. You have to keep trying. I can't bear it if you've given up." Her voice had shaken then, despite her efforts to control it, and he'd kissed her, his dry lips against hers, the hospital-leather smell around them both.

"Okay."

On the Scrabble board next to him, he'd spelled out "Izzie" and "Love". She grinned.

"That's dangerous, you know."

"I know."

//~//

Months after his death, Izzie was cleaning out the spare closet in the hallway when a large, clumsy box fell onto her head, leaving a painful spot on her temple.

"Ow, fuck!" She knelt to pick up the box when the picture of the board and tiles stopped her. It was the Scrabble board she'd brought home from the hospital after Denny's death.

It's not like it's ever easy to revisit old memories of the person you loved; especially when you've lost them forever. Izzie removed the lid of the box and her eyes filled with tears when the letters that spilled off the raised edges of each space on the board fell into her lap.

They were scrambled, but she knew what they spelled.

"Izzie". "Love".

She hadn't played Scrabble since she'd put the box away, but she brought the board into her room, setting it up on her dresser. With careful fingers, she placed the tiles in sequence.

"Izzie Loves Denny".

She knew it would always be true.


End file.
